seventeen
by Experimental
Summary: The 'model student,' indeed, is one of the most accomplished frauds in any field. . . . Fujisawa x Izuru [from the Saint Michel chapter].


Author's note: Like "To Drink with the Devil," this is a story I started while working on a longer Saint Michel piece ("Forbidden Colors") that didn't quite fit into the plot. Half is a character study of Fujisawa, half is PWP. So please be aware, **this story is rated R for some sexual violence.** These characters are not original: they appear in chapters 5 and 6 of volume 4 of the manga, in the Saint Michel or "Name of the Rose" chapter. The Mishima Yukio quote is from "Cigarette," which can be found in the anthology _Acts of Worship_. 

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seventeen 

When he took the position of student council vice-leader Fujisawa vowed no more sexual favors. He was the type to appreciate the chain of authority that arose naturally out of the chaos of the Saint Michel student life, and the laws that favored the most devious and determined. And as the second highest student in that chain, though still only in his second year, he felt overwhelmingly that it would be a squandering of duty to assume old roles. In the same way a wolf taken to grazing with the herd disgraces them both, he found it inappropriate to take pity on the old leaders from the third-year class whom he had once serviced in exchange for cigarettes, absolution and entertainment—despite the immense pleasure it would have brought to add insult to injury. Now the older students had only to hand over contraband at a gesture, or face consequences with the staff. It pleased Fujisawa to no end to see their outrage that the boy they had considered their inferior now abused them with impunity and the apathy of an ascetic monk, when it suited him to waste his valuable time. The only give and take now was his taking what they gave, and the only time the third-years would see him on his knees was in morning mass, setting a perfect example of a vice-leader for the selective gaze of the administration. 

The new arrangement pleased Fujisawa. Though the persona he wore now was only an altered version of its predecessors, it was as though for the first time it fit correctly. He and Okazaki Izuru, the student council leader, played the game well, assumed the roles of model students. And as Mishima had written, "the 'model student,' indeed, is one of the most accomplished frauds in any field." It was in part thanks to the delicate balance of fear and rumor that surrounded him that Fujisawa in particular was allowed such a range of behavior among the other students: the rumors of his past exploits and the fear to discover the truth and risk gaining his ill favor. Their parents' status did not hurt their reputations either, nor did their strong personalities. The students looked up to Okazaki as a benevolent big brother, someone who understood them and whom they could trust. Fujisawa they kept their distance with, but it was the distance one afforded a flame rather than a snake. After all a reputation was not so much what was said about a person but what he was able to do with it. And Fujisawa played the part he had won with the right combination of sincerity and illusion, for which he quickly inspired respect among his peers and distaste among the third-year class. 

Among the first-years he inspired curiosity. Consequently, he also produced in them a peculiar longing. Whether it was to _be_ him, Fujisawa did not care enough to know. He was content to be in their minds a kind of "demon king," a vehicle of holistic, rather than just intellectual, enlightenment that was so crucial to youth. In him they saw the rebellious narcissism of adolescence epitomized. It was more than just an untucked shirt during school hours, or dyed hair. A healthy and quiet disregard for authority was nothing unique. Whereas Okazaki was that kind of student who would grow up to gain wealth and prestige through hard work and straight living, what Fujisawa represented to them was not just the other side of that coin, what was the forbidden: he sanctified it. What it was, he said, what everyone wanted and feared most was beauty, and so they denounced it. Like the martyrs killed for their belief God could be found in human pleasures, the path to enlightenment was not always considered such, but no one could truly say with conviction that what was carnal was not divine. . . . 

In their naiveté the first-years hadn't thought a boy like Fujisawa was possible. He patrolled the school like a wolf herding the lambs whose clothes he wore with proud sacrilege. Like a da Vinci John the Baptist, emerging out of the darkness of the wild to point the way to Heaven. . . . The androgyny of his face unsettled them. The cold, penetrating look in his long, golden-brown eyes and the hard line of his brows could only be described as predatory; the potential of his full mouth they might have heard a senior mumble about was kept hidden behind a perpetual sneer. When he ran a finger absently over his slightly parted lips, which had become a habit of his when he was deep in thought, it never failed to turn the head of at least one observant first-year. 

On the soccer field, it could make a sixteen-year-old boy loose his concentration. If it were at the crucial moment in a play, then when his attention returned his classmates would rebuke him. They would use whatever opportunity available to vent their frustration at being matched against the varsity team; the cycle of misplaced aggression, and repression, would be fulfilled. Though they had not noticed the source of his distraction, the sexual epithets they would use as boys that age were wont to do would make him blush. No one drew attention to the fact that even those who used them were aroused by a fierce curiosity about the things they implied. In a world such as Saint Michel preparatory school where girls almost fell into the same category as unicorns and dragons, the images conjured by a slur were enough to quicken the breathing of the boy who told it and no one would dispute that it wasn't the physical exertion that had done it, though he might pray that his erection might go unnoticed in the fervor of the game. 

Their world was a sea of hormonal tension and each boy drowning in it. Fujisawa fancied himself their savior. 

Turning his focus to the game, he replaced his hand in the warm pocket of his uniform jacket. He did not smile, but one might have seen in his carriage the calm satisfaction of the anarchist who waits for his one sown seed to bloom. The boy who had looked his way—some skinny, bookish type, Yamada or Yamaguchi—was tripped by one of his teammates as they both went for the ball. It could not have been entirely by accident. As the other boys gathered around, the teacher rushed over to break up any fight that might ensue as a result. If one did natural law dictated the weakest boy would take the brunt of it. It never ceased to amaze Fujisawa the lengths to which students would go to bring their friends down and keep them there. There was something beautiful in the cruel forms the adolescent survival instinct took. 

Yamada-or-Yamaguchi got to his feet with a trail of blood running down his shin from the scratch from the other boy's cleats. The teacher told him to wash up and sit the rest of practice out, and Yamada-or-Yamaguchi started in Fujisawa's direction, first with a limp, then a resolutely normal stride. The game resumed on the narrow strip of field behind him with such indifference he might have never been a part of it at all. He glanced at Fujisawa as he passed, and the nervousness Fujisawa typically inspired flashed across the boy's eyes. Underneath, however, was a defiance Fujisawa admired. It was the martyrish streak of one thrust into a position he could never hope to keep, a determination arousing in its futility that only the pure emotion of youth could achieve. 

In the same moment, the pink tip of the first-year's tongue flicked so subtly across his lower lip it could have meant nothing. When he nonchalantly rubbed his backside with one hand no one would think he wasn't simply nursing a bruise from his stumble. Fujisawa pretended not to notice. 

He gave his prey two minutes, then followed him around the back of the gym. Yamada-or-Yamaguchi had tied a handkerchief around his leg, and it was spotted with blood red against white like the top of his sock. Excited by the contrast, Fujisawa pressed him against the wall and shoved his hands underneath the boy's shirt. The boy struggled, but it was an indecisive struggle, neither pushing nor pulling, and his shallow breaths that let out small clouds of steam betrayed his body's true feelings. It was only when Fujisawa turned him around to face the wall that his protests seemed genuine. Of course it was too late by then. There was no room for second guesses in this game. Wrists caught in Fujisawa's hands, Yamada-or-Yamaguchi bit back sounds of discomfort. The fear of discovery took precedence over physical concerns, which faded with time. 

And Fujisawa made sure the boy was well taken care of when it was over. Wiping the last bit of ejaculate from the corner of his mouth, the beautiful secret of which the boy now knew firsthand, he lit a confiscated cigarette while Yamada-or-Yamaguchi readjusted his shorts and shivered in the cold air. The overcast sky cast filtered light about indiscriminately, scattering their shadows and falling flatly on the sea and the city beyond, but it was not likely to bring any rain. The varsity soccer team could pummel the first-years the rest of the week at least. He offered Yamada-or-Yamaguchi the cigarette, but the boy didn't smoke. He lowered his head. He looked like he might cry. A glossy bead of blood marred his lip where he had bit it, but Fujisawa was suddenly in too foul a mood to entertain thoughts of licking it off. 

"You got what you wanted," he told Yamada-or-Yamaguchi. If the boy thought he was obliged to something more, whether affection or consolation and an apology, he was mistaken. Not that it mattered. He would be coming back for more the next time he was horny anyway. 

Fujisawa trusted the first-year would say no word of their encounter. Even in the supposed sanctity of confession there was no guarantee it would not spread, and the boy was much more afraid of what would happen to himself if his classmates knew than any act of revenge he might incur from Fujisawa. He knew that survival was equivalent to silence. At times that seemed to be the only truth that remained a constant. . . . 

Watching the thin trail of smoke rise from the cigarette and dissipate in the air, Fujisawa was bothered by its transience. 

——— 

The bell rang to signal the end of class. From out of the blue a voice murmured in his ear: "I need to talk to you." 

Traces of apricot and the warmth of breath lingered in the air around Fujisawa's desk as Okazaki Izuru strode past him and past classmates packing up their belongings to the front of the class where their Christian history teacher Mitani stood erasing the blackboard. The young teacher stopped to give Okazaki his full attention, a typically bashful smile on his lips as he listened to the boy's question. And Okazaki in turn dressed up his innocent query about the popes of the fourteenth century or some other unimportant subject with coy smiles and a tilt of the head, and an enticing fumble with his jacket buttons. . . . 

Fujisawa wanted to vomit. They could have started going at it on Mitani's desk right then and there and it would have been less salacious. He supposed he should consider it fortunate that their teacher was the type to be utterly naïve in the matter of human relationships. 

Still Fujisawa resented Okazaki's brazenness with an intense passion that cut into the depths of his person. Aside from his inability to pinpoint when Okazaki had developed an interest in their teacher, the impudence with which he displayed it to the class was too much. He was treading the fine line of the acceptable. It wasn't like him, the straight and narrow leader; it was like something Fujisawa would do. For that reason Fujisawa was convinced Okazaki's motive was nothing more than to mock and rile him. 

To hammer it home again and again: everything was his. . . . 

A row in front of him, fat Tanaka mumbled, "Teacher's pet," as he hoisted his books under his arm. 

Fuck you too, you fat prick, Fujisawa thought. What makes you think you could ever be on the same level as _him_? Fat Tanaka would buckle under the pressure if that ever happened—after Hell froze over. The arrogant bastard would go suicidal and rip his own corpulent belly open in the school cafeteria one day, which would make the whole ordeal more than worth it. Of course, Fujisawa knew it was from no desire to defend Okazaki that he entertained such thoughts about his classmate. It was merely his inability to stand hearing his own resentment echoed in someone else's voice. 

When the two were finally alone in the room, and the sounds from the hall faded behind the closed door, Fujisawa shut his textbook. "What's going on between you and Sensei?" he said. The curious smirk laced with malicious sarcasm that tugged at one side of his mouth became almost a snarl when he added in a lower tone, "Are you lovers now?" 

Okazaki stared back at him, his expression unreadable, his back against the podium. "It's none of your business," he said. Despite the blatancy of his performance of a moment ago, he returned to guarding himself as he often did for subjects of a personal nature and Fujisawa in general. 

"Is that so? Because everyone could tell how much you wanted to rip each other's clothes off—" 

"Shut up, Fujisawa." 

Fujisawa frowned. Hypocrite, he thought. "Fine," he said as he replaced his mechanical pencil in the pencil box. The charade wasn't worth his time. "What did you want to talk to me about?" 

In response, Okazaki took Fujisawa's face in his hands and covered Fujisawa's mouth with his. 

Surprised by how quickly Okazaki had closed the space between the podium and his desk, Fujisawa froze. When he regained his senses he captured Okazaki's lips firmly, as well as his arm. The chair protested when he stood abruptly and pressed Okazaki against the desk across the aisle. A wince escaped the student leader, as much from discomfort as Fujisawa's sudden violence. Okazaki licked his lower lip and recognized the coppery taste of blood. His eyes darkened and he drew Fujisawa to him again, coaxing the other boy's tongue into his mouth, inviting him to taste the blood he had inadvertently drawn. 

Instead Fujisawa tasted apricots. A bouquet of apricots, more like sweet flowers than someone's aftertaste from lunch. Something about it was dangerous. So he tilted his head to drink in more, and his mind swam like when he stood up too fast or rubbed his eyes too hard and caused his vision to blur in a kaleidoscope of shadow. He sighed when Okazaki's mouth escaped him, and he opened his eyes, only then realizing that they had been closed. Okazaki's gaze was focused on the door. Even as his lips grazed Fujisawa's with a lewd subtlety he watched it out of the corner of his eyes. But when Fujisawa turned to look for himself Okazaki immediately pulled his body to him. His hands suddenly tackling Fujisawa's fly were a successful distraction. His urgent breathing seemed to echo in Fujisawa's ears in the empty room. There could be no mistaking his intention, but Okazaki elaborated, "Do me," regardless. His swollen lips curved into a lopsided grin against the other boy's neck. . . . 

Fujisawa knew Okazaki's eyes were on the door again, watching over his shoulder. His first thought was that Okazaki was looking out for anyone who might happen to walk in and catch them in the act, but in light of Okazaki's behavior with their teacher he suspected something more complicated motivating him. Perhaps Okazaki secretly hoped it would be Mitani who found them. To see his two model students fucking each other like animals in his classroom—surely a sensitive and God-fearing person such as he would be disgusted. Or was Okazaki counting on a different reaction, hoping their teacher would take a hint? . . . "Is Sensei bored with you already?" Fujisawa said, hoping to draw the other boy's true motives out. 

But Okazaki innocently countered, "I don't know what you're talking about." The hand he had slipped down Fujisawa's trousers moved slowly up the front of his thigh, anything but innocent. There was no love between the two, and at least before they usurped their positions from the third-years there had been no real hate either. However, Fujisawa was hard pressed to believe he was the real object of Okazaki's desire. It was not for the first time that he felt a burning resentment for having to play Okazaki's second in everything, for allowing himself to be manipulated by Okazaki's promises. Fujisawa had never given more than a passing thought to his teacher as a sexual conquest, but now suddenly he found he wanted the young man's attentions for himself more than anything else. Okazaki already had all he needed. Though he could hardly help his feelings betraying him, his vain attempts to keep the truth from Fujisawa only proved to the vice-leader that what he wanted most of all was Mitani. The way he looked up at Fujisawa from under his eyelashes, the same innocent grin he had shown their teacher minutes before marred by smugness, was proof of his confidence. Fujisawa knew he would not be able to stand the humiliation if Okazaki got what he wanted this time. In that moment he made his decision: he would make Mitani his lover, even if he had to overthrow Okazaki to do so. Even if he had to kill him. It was for his survival. 

"You selfish ass. . . ." Fujisawa shoved him hard. The desk rocked under the other boy, and for a moment the sense of unbalance sent a flash of instinctual fear across Okazaki's eyes. Though he may have acted above bestial emotions, he was susceptible to them after all. He moved to get away, a frown indicating a change of heart, but the crotch of his trousers was still strained by an erection. 

Fujisawa trapped him against the edge of the desk. He could feel Okazaki's heartbeat racing in his chest as their bodies shifted against each other and he teased, "Where do you think you're going?" 

"Let me go," Okazaki said; "Just forget it." Trying to slide away from Fujisawa, he turned his back to him, and Fujisawa grabbed him around the middle. "Stop it!" Okazaki demanded, struggling as Fujisawa's hands moved lower, but if Fujisawa could see his face he knew he would find a smile of satisfaction there. "No way," he told him. Between Okazaki's grunts he could hear a chuckle. 

They both tumbled to the floor. The laminate smelled like disinfectant and the dirt brought in on their shoes. They could feel the gritty texture through the wool of their uniforms as they lay panting against it. His face pressed against Okazaki's side, Fujisawa worked the other boy's fly with one hand, his penis with the other. Okazaki's elbow attempted to thwart his progress, but somehow his fingers helped undo his trousers, allowing Fujisawa to pull them down around his thighs. If he really wanted to escape he could have done it at any time; he was in top physical shape. Fujisawa was breathing heavy in earnest when he finally pinned Okazaki on his back and his arms above his head. The game of cat and mouse, of give and take at its most pure and violent and desperate, excited Fujisawa. That he would find another who played it so well in Okazaki Izuru, his rival, repulsed him and turned him on at the same time. It seemed the more he abused Okazaki, the stronger Okazaki's lust grew. The pain on his brow and in his gasps was real, but he urged Fujisawa deeper and faster with the greedy bucking of his hips. The flex of his muscles under Fujisawa was so perfect in its imitation of distress, defiling the clean smell of soap on his skin, that a peculiar mental calm came over the vice-leader. I could kill him right now, he thought—one hand caressing Okazaki's defenseless side, his grip on the other boy's wrist tightening enough to leave a bruise—and it would be lovely. . . . 

His vision darkened and he buried his cry in the lapel of Okazaki's uniform, while Okazaki arched up into him and came with little more than a long, ragged sigh. His fingers dug painfully into Fujisawa's shoulder; Fujisawa's slid on the dirty floor. 

In the clarity that came the moment after ejaculation, Fujisawa sat up with a start. "Shit," he said between breaths. He expected to see that someone had sneaked into the classroom with them while they weren't looking and was standing there gawking, but when he turned around he was pleasantly disappointed. The door had not budged in its jamb and the notices pinned to the wall were still. He stood and zipped up his trousers. The wet spot on his shirt prompted another, "Shit." He quickly buttoned his jacket over it. As he glanced around the classroom he thought he heard Okazaki laughing at him. The mocking sound echoed menacingly in Fujisawa's ears and he thought that when he turned back he would see his classmate changed somehow. He was even afraid what he would see was the demon king Fujisawa only pretended to be alive in the flesh in Okazaki. 

However, Okazaki was lying in the same position Fujisawa had left him: eyes closed while his breathing gradually slowed, his shirt pushed up around his chest and one arm curving over his head like an image of Saint Sebastian bound to a tree. Under the oppressive honesty of fluorescent lights, his lips were bright red against his pale face with smeared blood. Fujisawa wiped his own mouth in a fit of self-consciousness as though it were contaminated. 

He kicked Okazaki's leg in spite. "Come on, get up," he growled. 

Okazaki's eyes opened slightly then and stared at him, unmoved. His apathy inspired something violent deep inside Fujisawa, an urge to strike the other boy for real, to see if anything could mar the expression on his face of utter peace that was so much like the saint as well. He was reminded of the line from a novel: "Your skin is so beautiful. I had to cut it." But he did not wish to give Okazaki the satisfaction; he knew whatever he did it would only be more beautiful. 

Blinking a few times first, Okazaki got to his feet and dressed silently as though in shame. Fujisawa knew better: Okazaki dressed himself with the kind of coyness with which others stripped. He straightened his tie with the arrogance of a matador. He used the white cuff of his shirt to wipe the blood off his mouth, staring complacently at the stain and licking at whatever remained. . . . 

Fujisawa was not expecting it when Okazaki suddenly leaned against him and kissed him again. An irrational fear seized him. The hot, carnal breaths that entered Fujisawa's mouth repulsed him to the core. Though far less chaste, it felt to him to be the kiss of Judas, damning him forever to second place and betraying the understanding that had once existed between them. For a moment it seemed to Fujisawa a living thing, trying to consume him. His lips tingled with a queer sensation, and he felt like he was sinking into the darkness behind his eyes—into the apricot-filled, decay-less place where saints go when they die. It was more genuine than anything he had ever imagined. It was dangerous. It reminded him that everything _was_ Okazaki's—even Fujisawa himself. And for that he turned his mind against Okazaki forever. 


End file.
